


Bright Red Scream

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Abuse, Self Harm, Therapy, bipolar, childhood neglect, golds low self esteem in general, havent watched ouat since season 3, its all outdated headcanons, its really overdramatic but oh well, not a lot of plot but lots of talking, requisite amount of tears, severe headcanons, so everything gold says about his mom is..., title is from a nonfiction book about self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: Gold schedules an appointment with Archie.Archie is...unprepared.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting all my stories in Google Docs today. This one doesn't really feel complete to me but I know I'm done with it regardless. It's short but it's honestly one of my favorites.

Archie didn’t know what to expect when Mr. Gold made an appointment, but it wasn’t this. Gold sat perfectly still, his jacket discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing Archie his bare forearms. Archie felt frozen; he leaned forward in his chair and let his eyes flick over the scars -- rows of them on each arm, the cuts close together and hard to make out. There were about seven fresh ones, still red and puffy.

Archie sat back, unable to hold in a sigh. Gold watched him closely and then looked away, rolling his sleeves down.

“How long have you been self-harming?” Archie asked. Gold paused momentarily, one arm in his jacket sleeve. Eventually, he finished dressing and leaned back, taking a quick breath.

“It’s a recent development,” he said. “I suppose officially I started when I was nine, but it was never in earnest. Like this.”

“In earnest?” Archie asked. Gold’s lips twitched. His voice was low and a bit difficult to hear; Archie had to lean forward whenever Gold spoke.

“I didn’t do it often,” Gold said. “Once a year when I was a boy, until --” His eyes flickered up to Archie’s face, and Archie caught a quick, stricken look that suggested Gold was about to reveal something he hadn’t intended to. “Until I was taken in by my mothers. Then it was … occasional. Every few years I would start again.”

He crossed his legs and looked out the window, evidently finding that easier than maintaining eye contact.

“I was exceedingly careful,” Gold said, “to avoid scarring, and to hurt myself sparingly, so I could easily pass it off if anyone asked. No one ever noticed -- except once, when I cut my hands. But that was after a car accident, and I knew I could excuse it.”

“Who noticed?” Archie asked, his head tilting to the side. To his surprise, Gold flushed a little, his cheeks turning a pale shade of pink.

“Cora Mills,” he said. Archie raised his eyebrows.

“Regina’s mother?”

“Yes. She heard about the crash and came over to ask me about it. Didn’t even need to lie,” said Gold, staring down at his hands. “She just assumed.”

“So what’s changed?” Archie asked, gesturing toward Gold’s arms. “You said you used to be careful so no one would catch you. That doesn’t seem to apply anymore.”

Gold just shrugged and shook his head.

“You didn’t want people to notice before,” Archie said. “How do you feel now?”

Gold clasped his hands, looking down at the floor. “I’d hate for anyone to find out,” he said.

“Yet you’re being more careless.”

“No one will know unless I want them to,” said Gold firmly. “But it’s more than obvious to me now that I can’t just stop whenever I want to.” He uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I read a book.  _ The Sorrows of Young Werther _ . It caused a deluge of copycat suicides. Was banned in two countries.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Archie said. He’d never read it himself, though depending on how pretentious his company was, he sometimes pretended he had.

“Then I read  _ Overcoming Depression _ ,” said Gold. “ _ The Violence of Care. Why Does He Do That. Beyond Betrayal _ .”

“Self-help books,” Archie said. He had half of those on his bookshelf to the right, and indicated as much with a tilt of his head that Gold didn’t seem to notice.

“And then,” said Gold, “books about other things. Violent people. Most of them were depressed -- and one book mentioned that they would go on these websites where people talked about self-harm, so I looked it up, and …”

Archie reached forward and grabbed Gold’s hand, looking pointedly at the raw, red mark where Gold had been scraping at his skin with his thumbnail. Gold seemed to take no offense at being stopped; he removed his hands from Archie’s and put them on the couch.

“There were links to stories about self-harm,” Gold said. “A lot of them with a character in his sixties. Same character, different authors.”

“Fanfiction, probably,” said Archie. Gold didn’t seem familiar with the term.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If it’s the same character with different authors,” said Archie, “they’re probably fan-written stories based on a TV show or book. They’re not original. It probably wouldn’t do you much good to read the source material. Or watch it.”

“No,” Gold said, drawing back. “Perhaps not.”

“So that’s why you started self-harming again?” Archie asked, clumsily avoiding the word ‘cut.’ The word ‘cut’ made him think, inevitably, of teenagers; it was a terrible stereotype that he wanted to avoid connecting with Gold.

“I don’t know,” said Gold. “It was certainly the catalyst. I didn’t really know much about it before -- when my son was in high school, he had a friend who cut herself. And he told me about it. That was the most I ever knew.”

He flexed his fingers, moved to clasp his hands, and then remembered that Archie had grabbed his hand for a reason. 

“I’ve been doing it every day,” Gold said, his foot tapping. “That’s not healthy.”

“So you’re here to stop self-harming,” Archie said. Gold rubbed his chin, still not making eye contact.

“To make a dent in it, at least,” he said. “Let’s be realistic. I’ve been doing this nearly fifty years.”

Archie couldn’t hold back a chuckle, and Gold gave him a surprised, shy smile in return. 

“Okay,” said Archie. “Well, why don’t we start at the beginning, then. You said you first started self-harming when you were nine, right?”

“Yes,” said Gold. Archie made a note of it.

“Why don’t you tell me about that?” he said. He watched Gold swallow once, hard, before nodding. Gold’s face was expressionless and had been through most of the session so far; Archie wondered if that would ever change or if he’d spend the next few weeks relying on body language alone.

“Uh,” said Gold, scratching his neck with one finger. “Well, my father cut himself on a broken bottle that day. He didn’t bandage it. I remember looking at the blood and the open cuts and just … couldn’t stop thinking about it. Uh, I helped him shave some mornings, so I knew he was out of razor blades. I went with him to collect the dole and said I’d go get a pack if he gave me some cash.

“I had some pocket money from -- well, I had some pocket money. So I got a bigger pack than usual and took some from the box. He never knew. Then that night I tried to cut my wrist while he was sleeping.” Gold looked up at Archie uneasily. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was just that my dad cut his hand. I was copying him.”

Archie just nodded, gesturing for Gold to go on.

“It didn’t work,” said Gold, staring down at the floor. “I don’t know if the blades were dull or rusty or … maybe I wasn’t pressing hard enough. I couldn’t get it to cut deep enough to draw blood. In the morning I had this series of red lines on my wrist, but no actual cuts.”

Archie tilted his head. “Does that embarrass you?” he asked. Gold furrowed his eyebrows. “You blushed when you said it didn’t work,” Archie said.

Gold’s blush evaporated instantly, as though he willed it away. “It’s … moderately embarrassing,” he said. “It was a razor blade. You have to be fairly incompetent if you can’t get a  _ razor blade  _ to pierce your skin.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent,” Archie said, scribbling in his notes. When he glanced up, he caught Gold glaring at him. “Do you believe you’re incompetent?” he asked.

“Of course not,” said Gold.

“Of course not,” Archie repeated. Gold shot him a nasty look; Archie didn’t really feel like he’d earned that, but he ignored it. “You said your dad cut his hands on some broken glass that day. What was he doing?”

“He fell,” said Gold. “Had a bottle in his hand and it shattered.”

“What kind of bottle?” Archie asked.

“Watney’s Red Barrel,” said Gold. He had crossed his arms and he was tilting his head down, looking at his shoes. “It was his favorite at the time. And I don’t self-harm because my father was an alcoholic, before you start.”

Archie said nothing, and eventually Gold looked up at him, flicking the hair out of his eyes.

“In retrospect, I understand that my father was an alcoholic,” he said, voice quiet. “As a child, it never caused me any pain, so I don’t consider it a significant detail. We spent a lot of time in bars, but it was … enjoyable. For me. The bartenders were friendly. There were free snacks.”

“You don’t have to defend him to me,” said Archie. He was a bit surprised when Gold smiled.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m explaining this now so you know not to focus on it later.”

“Okay,” said Archie. He wrote this down in his notes. “Was your father a good father?”

There was a long pause. Gold was clasping and unclasping his hands, but his face was blank. 

“He took care of me,” he said finally. Archie took that in.

“Earlier you mentioned being taken in by your mothers,” he prompted.

“Yes,” Gold murmured. He shifted in his seat, head cocked. “My father had a mental break when I was ten. He regressed. I tried to take care of him for about a month but he was … uh, incorrigible. And more than capable of taking care of himself, even in that state. One night I came home and he wasn’t there, so I …”

He trailed off, finishing the story with a facial shrug. Archie wrote the word ‘incorrigible’ down, puzzling over it for a moment. It was an odd word to use, and his first thought was that Gold was using it incorrectly -- but that was ridiculous. 

“So what did you do?” Archie asked, setting his thoughts aside for later. Gold sighed.

“I was homeless for awhile,” he said. “About a year. And then I was taken into a group home -- Catholic place, run by nuns -- for another year. And then two women came and claimed to be my aunts, so I got to go home with them.”

“They weren’t your aunts, though?” Archie asked. Gold shrugged.

“They knew my father somehow. Didn’t think too highly of him. I guess they heard what he was like and went looking for me. I never asked them many questions.”

Archie nodded. “What about your mother?” he asked. Gold tensed for half a second.

“What about her?” he asked unconvincingly.

“She wasn’t around when your father regressed,” Archie said. “So where was she?”

There was an expression on Gold’s face for the first time since the session started; his mouth was twisted and his eyebrows drawn together in an angry line.

“She died,” he said, then amended, “she was murdered. When I was three.”

“Murdered,” Archie repeated, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice. “How did it happen?”

Gold looked truly uncomfortable, still clasping and unclasping his hands. “She was trying to leave the flat,” he said. “My dad killed her. I don’t remember how it happened, exactly -- I was watching, but I’m not sure.”

Archie just sat there, too flabbergasted to speak. 

“She was seventeen,” Gold said, avoiding eye contact. That broke Archie’s silence pretty easily.

“Seventeen? When you were three?”

“Yeah.”

“How old was your father?”

Gold rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he said. “Almost thirty, I think.”

Archie said nothing; he processed it silently, keeping his eyes on Gold, and when he was done mulling it over, he took time to write it all down. Gold’s eyes flickered to him occasionally, never staying long.

“Is there anything else you remember about it?” Archie asked. Gold didn’t respond. “Your father didn’t go to jail for this,” Archie noted.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gold said, voice brusque.

“Okay,” said Archie. He glanced at the clock as surreptitiously as he could, saw that they were running out of time. “Have you ever seen a therapist before?” he asked. “Been diagnosed with anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and Archie’s eyes, focused on his notepad, went back to the circled, capitalized word ‘incorrigible.’ He considered using it in conversation to try and gauge what Gold’s definition was.

“I’ve never seen a therapist,” said Gold carefully, “for any significant length of time, and never focusing on …” He flexed his arms, didn’t finish the sentence. “Twice, I’ve been in the hospital. I’ve received tentative diagnoses from the doctors there. But they were --” He hesitated a moment. “--long-term efforts. I never committed to outpatient long enough to confirm anything.”

Archie nodded. “You were in the hospital for suicide attempts?” he guessed. Gold simply nodded, not seeming to consider this worth elaborating on. “Can you tell me what your ‘tentative diagnoses’ were, and whether you received medication for them?”

A pause.

“Bipolar, the first time,” Gold said, not meeting Archie’s eyes. “Seroquel. The second time, severe depression. Abilify.”

Seroquel for bipolar disorder seemed an odd choice to Archie. He didn’t comment on it, just wrote it down. 

“Can you tell me about your suicide attempts?” he asked. Gold shook his head almost before Archie had finished asking the question. “Okay,” said Archie amicably. He made a show of looking at the clock this time. They still had fifteen minutes or so left … but he was never a stickler for time constraints. “I’m afraid we’re out of time for today,” Archie said, turning his eyes back to Gold. “Why don’t we make an appointment for next week? Does Thursday evening work for you?”

“Yes,” said Gold, still staring at the ground. He stood abruptly, evidently more exhausted by the session than Archie had thought. Gold dispensed with pleasantries entirely on his way out, not giving Archie even a look to say goodbye.

They were off to a good start, Archie figured. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was the end of their third session and conversation had come to a natural lull. Archie tapped his pen against his notebook, thinking.

“New cuts?” he asked Gold. Gold’s jaw twitched.

“I used a match,” he said, holding out his hands. Archie turned them over, searching carefully until he found the tiny burn marks peppered across Gold’s palms.

“That’s new,” said Archie.

“And fun,” said Gold, his tone guilty. “Fun but painful. Irregardless, I don’t think I --” He froze suddenly, his mouth open and eyes wide. Archie watched him curiously. “I -- oh, god.” Gold covered his face, sounding equal parts amused and pained. “Sorry. I meant regardless.”

“I didn’t notice,” Archie said truthfully. Gold sighed.

“I’m such an idiot,” he said. “It bothers me to no end when people get that wrong, and here I sit--”

“Hey,” Archie cut in. He was still holding onto one of Gold’s hands and he squeezed gently. “You’re not an idiot, okay? Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Right.” Gold pulled away, his cheeks red and his eyes averted. Archie had never seen someone so upset with themselves over such a small mistake.

“You are not an idiot,” he said again. Gold cast him an embarrassed look. “Can you repeat that?” Archie asked.

“ _ What _ ?”

“Say that you’re not an idiot,” said Archie, maintaining eye contact. “I want to hear you say it.”

The color drained from Gold’s face; he looked aghast. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

There was no answer. Gold’s arms and legs were crossed now, and he’d shifted farther down the couch, putting distance between them. 

“Gold,” said Archie, “please. I want to hear you say it.”

“This is stupid,” said Gold under his breath.

“Why is it stupid?” asked Archie. Gold refused to look his way, eyes glued firmly to the wall. “Why is it stupid to say you’re not an idiot?”

“You’re overreacting,” said Gold, sounding pained again. “I wasn’t being serious.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem if you say it,” said Archie. He sat back, willing to wait Gold out. Gold was still staring out the window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was stony but heated, an odd combination. As Archie watched, Gold extricated one hand and brought it up to hide his eyes.

When Archie realized what he was seeing, it felt like a pit had opened up in his chest.

“Gold,” he said softly, “are you crying?”

Gold didn’t answer. He was perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of his chest. Archie leaned forward and grabbed the box of Kleenex on the table, pushing it closer to Gold.

“I’m not an idiot,” said Gold finally, his voice broken and thick. Archie’s heart softened impossibly.

“I know,” he said. “Thank you for saying it.”

Gold nodded imperceptibly and sniffed, still hiding his eyes. What Archie could see of Gold’s face was beet-red, and it was hard to tell if that was from the tears or from embarrassment.

“It’s okay to cry--” Archie started.

“Stop,” said Gold harshly. “Just stop talking. Stop being …  _ nice _ . For just a moment.”

Archie drew back, momentarily flummoxed. He settled into silence, watching Gold unfold a tissue and use it to cover most of his face.

Minutes passed without a word. Gold sniffed only once more, quiet and self-conscious. The heat drained from his face slowly, and when his eyes were mostly dry, he finally spoke again, voice low and shaky. “We’re done for today.”

Archie didn’t look at the clock, but he knew they had at least half an hour left. “Alright,” he said. 

Gold stood slowly, dropping the used tissues in the trash can as he passed by it. He didn’t look back at Archie as he left, and Archie decided not to remind him to make an appointment. Gold was inconsistent at making his appointments, sometimes took month-long breaks between them. He hadn’t cried in a session before; Archie suspected he wouldn’t see Gold for a while as a result. 


End file.
